Chapter 9 - The Last Friday
Six months later, spring had arrived in Hawthorne Junction.
The station platform was lined with wooden boxes of bright yellow daffodils and purple iris, planted personally by Dale, who now drove a brand-new service truck paid for by an anonymous donor named Corvelli Commercial Refrigeration.
The old wooden bench at the far end of Track Two had been restored. The worn planks were sanded smooth and stained a rich, warm mahogany, with a brass plaque bolted to the back rest:
Reserved for those who wait with hope.
At 4:10 PM on a warm, sunny Friday, Cece walked out of the station office.
She no longer wore the ill-fitting navy uniform coat. She wore a light yellow sundress that hugged her soft, broad hips, her chestnut hair falling in shiny waves down her back.
Max was sitting on the mahogany bench.
He wasn't looking at the tracks. He was looking at her.
He wore a light gray linen suit, no tie, his dark hair catching the warm afternoon sunlight. Standing beside him was Clara, looking healthy, radiant, and laughing as she adjusted a vase of fresh peonies on the platform table.
As Cece approached, Max stood up.
He didn't wait for the 4:17 train. He walked straight to her, taking both of her hands in his.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small black velvet box.
Inside rested a stunning, vintage diamond ring—simple, timeless, and set in heavy platinum that glittered like fire under the spring sun.
"You spent seven weeks watching me sit on this bench, Cece," Max said, his low voice full of a deep, unshakeable love that made her eyes fill with happy tears. "You gave me back my sister. You gave me back my life. And you taught me that home isn't a place you wait for... it's the person standing beside you."
He dropped to one knee on the sunny platform, looking up into her blue-gray eyes.
"Cecilia Rowan, will you marry me?"
Cece didn't wait for the train whistle. She didn't check the schedule.
She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him up into a deep, passionate kiss that made Clara cheer and Dale blow the station horn three times in celebration.
"Yes, Massimo Corvelli," Cece whispered against his lips, her smile bright enough to light up every track in New York. "Yes, forever."
The 4:17 train from Manhattan pulled into Hawthorne Junction, blowing its whistle in a long, happy greeting.
May you like
The doors opened, but for the first time in three years, nobody on the bench was waiting for a stranger to come home.
They were already home.
